


40k Chaos Artweek Ficlets

by Feinstaubpartikel



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: (but that is because I can turn everything into angst), Gen, rogue trader turned pirate prince, surprisingly tame for Chaos-related shenanigans, tags may change as i update, the obligatory Chaos AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-16 07:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16949604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feinstaubpartikel/pseuds/Feinstaubpartikel
Summary: A collection of ficlets for the 2018 Chaos Artweek.





	1. Day One: Enemy of my Enemy / Unlikely Allies

“Your lordship.” She smiles, not that it does anything. Vox connections aren’t known for their visual aptitude, after all, but it feels like she should smile. Getting the man to agree to a conversation of sorts was nigh impossible in the first place. That it doesn’t have to be face-to-face was her idea, admittedly - too many people seeking…  _ alternatives _ to the Imperium’s rigid ideologies feel the need to go a little overboard with their new freedoms. Mutilation might feel good in the moment, but tends to be somewhat unfortunate in the long run. No need for her to lay eyes whatever it is that has given the Faceless Lord his moniker.

The pause that crackles back at her is a little longer than it should be. Given that their ships are lazily circling the asteroid field between them, careful not to get into a position that might give the other one ideas, it is a small miracle that the vox connection is as durable as it is in the first place - but still: The man is making her wait. Fair enough. She is the one coming to him, after all, though she will remember this for later. 

The voice that hisses back at her over the sputtering static is roughly as unpleasant as expected, even with the technology acting as in-between. “Captain. I hope you have a good reason for asking to meet with me after all the trouble you’ve been getting into.”

That makes her laugh, even though every hair on her body is wanting to stand on end. “Oh, please. If I hadn’t gotten into all that trouble  _ with  _ you, as you call it, I wouldn’t have been half as interesting  _ to  _ you.”

“Interesting.” That now is drawled, though the result combined with the static is more like an engine attempting to growl menace without enough fuel in the tank for anything but stuttering coughs. “You’d call yourself  _ interesting  _ to  _ me _ . Still bolder than a freshly minted pirate prince, I see.”

“You agreed to meet me and you haven’t attempted to kill me once”, she points out lightly, then gives the vox receiver another one of her most charming smiles. He might not see it, but he’ll hear it in her tone (she hopes). “Besides, if I didn’t think my proposition would interest you, I wouldn’t have taken up what little of your precious time I can hope to attain.”

“I am not interested in your flattery, least of all if you make it that obvious”, comes the growl and now she is grinning, satisfied despite herself. It might be stupid to be jockeying for points with one of the more powerful warlords of the Expanse, but it feels  _ good _ .

“Fine. I’ll make it quick. There is an enemy of mine that I want to see brought low, but  _ I  _ cannot be seen moving against them - ”

Here she is interrupted by a snarl made slightly less impressive by being interrupted by static somewhere in the middle. “You dare try and use me as your attack dog?” Almost simultaneously, nervous activity erupts at the augur stations. Her own console flashes red at her: Not too far off their stern, engines are powering up. Subtle.

“You misunderstand me”, she smiles into the vox and waves at her weapons officers to stand down. It takes a guard tackling one away from a station to get the point across. “I was merely about to give you several interesting facets of information and let you decide what you did with them.”

“And if I sold you out?”

“That”, she says mildly, “would be unfortunate.” This time it is her keying in the firing arcs.  _ Blade _ spins stately, bringing her Sunsear batteries to bear on the closest contact, augurs working to find their plasma drives.

Silence reigns, broken only by the stuttering of static. The static rises to a shrieking pitch only moments later as the batteries fire, causing even more interference than the asteroid field by itself. Off in the distance, even the pict recorders pick up on a small series of explosions blooming. 

She is rewarded by wheezing laughter across the vox. “You will owe me, captain.”

_ Success. _ Her smile grows in triumph. She can almost feel the eyes of her officers on her, a little nervous, a little worshipful, a little hopeful. It is a good feeling. “I remain my own woman. Apart from that, I will happily trade a favour for a favour, your lordship.”

“No, captain. You will owe me a favour and I will think about what I do with that information of yours. Send it over, then leave. Your audience is over.”

And with that, the connection terminates. She will remember this indeed, but for now - for now all she has to do is forward what intel she has been able to gather on the Hela’s shipping lanes before getting the hell out of dodge. And who knows: This time, it might just be the last time that she has to bother with that lot.


	2. Day Two: Turning Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It only takes three days to cement an idea.

There is just no way out. That cursed pirate is hounding her every step. So are the Helas, downright gleeful at the prospect of finally seeing their rival erased from the sector. The whole archaeotech smuggling operation was impressive largely in how exploded back in her face, with both - it is whispered - the Arbites and an overzealous Inquisitor looking into it. Whether the latter also has an inkling about the disapperance of his fellow a few years ago on Rainfall - at this point, it wouldn’t surprise her. Winterscale appears to have remembered that she  _ sort of _ caused the close call on Footfall and to top it off, Tek has gotten it in his head to accuse her of reneging on her contract with this clan.

One of those things she could deal with. Two of those things she could deal with. But all of them at once and for once in her life, she can no longer see a way out. She is trapped in her own life, her own ship, her own skin and there is just - there is just no way  _ out _ . The thought sets her skin to crawling all on its own.  _ Anything but that, _ she wants to howl,  _ I could survive anything but that! _

She doesn’t, of course. If nothing else, she has been raised better than that - if nothing else, she has been prepared for this day from the point where she could talk. She always knew it would end like this. She just didn’t consider that it was her parents that had failed, not her - she hasn’t set herself on this path. Her parents have:  _ They _ have made her their heiress,  _ they _ have drilled her until she could no longer speak freely,  _ they _ have refused to let her leave once it became apparent that she was unsuited.  _ They _ have failed her. 

And so has everyone else. Where were the Arbites when her parents were murdered? Where was the Inquisition when one of their own took Rabalias from her? Where is the Navy now that a pirate is closing in ever closer on the borders of the Imperium? Why is it always her that has to carry the weight? Prayer is no relief. What money she wastes on reliquaries and donations only returns empty words. There is no one coming to help her.

She doesn’t think when she rips the soul stone off her coat and throws it across the room. It shatters against the far wall, a glimmering spread of shards and - suddenly - terrified regret. Wasn’t it said to ward her soul against the warp? She stands there, motionless, the walls of the room too wide and too narrow at once, and feels dread trickling down her spine. They are set to jump to warp in a mere few hours. It has been years since she performed such a jump with the soul stone. What if - but no, she will be safe behind the Gellar fields. She will be safe. There is no need to be afraid.

That night, she finds herself in a familiar garden in her dreams. It is beautiful. Wherever she looks, flowers are blooming. Vines seem to twitch and writhe as animated by a beating heart, then wither and die as she is still looking. Insects buzz in great, writhing swarms, shimmering in the air like oil spills. In the thick growth around her, movement lumbers and shambles. The air is thick with a sweet, cloying smell that seems to settle in her lungs like a thick, viscous membrane. Her skin itches with sweat and the feeling of a thousand little legs tickling and crawling. 

She has been here before. Now like then, she knows instinctively that there is safety here, and comfort. All she would have to do is bow her knee -

The thought makes her start upright, ripping her from the dream. Her heart is hammering, her breath ragged. She stumbles from her bed and then her rooms in a daze. Even after she has spent the remaining night hours fencing with several terrified armsmen and -women, she doesn’t feel better. By the time she makes it onto the bridge after that, it is gently suggested to her that she might want to get some some sleep by Inanna. She goes, grumbling.

Her dreams see her on a vast plain. In the distance fire lights the sky. The sound of great hammers falling echoes past her. The air is hot and dry, as if blowing directly from some great oven. Beneath her feet are ash and slag and precious little else. The place feels strangely familiar, as if some part of it were in her blood - or maybe, worse or better, as if it recognised her and was opening its arms in welcome.

There is no safety here, but ambition - and strength. She can feel it like the veins of molten fire she can feel deep beneath the ground; as if the blood of this place was running through her veins too. It is a heady feeling, a powerful one, as if she had the will and the ability to rip apart all that threatened her -

She starts awake again. This time her heart beats not with fear but with excitement, even though she is so exhausted she stumbles to her knees when she rises. Even she has to admit that she cannot work like this. 

Returning to bed feels suspiciously like relief. It doesn’t take long until she falls asleep again. For a while, Inanna’s sleep medication does its trick - and then the dreams start again.

She is walking down twisting corridors. The air itself seems to shimmer with light. There is a strange smell in the air, not unlike ozone. When she turns her head too fast she can see images flashing on the glinting walls, images that feel like half-forgotten memories and plans she didn’t know she had. 

It is a strange place, this labyrinth, stranger than the last ones she has visited. There is ambition here too, but it is different, more a powerblade than a chainsword this time. No feelings of safety either, more as if her mind was at war with an all-seeing enemy and losing, but growing ever more sharper for every lesson learned from this loss. She is seen here, but for once it doesn’t scare her.

Eventually she drifts up from her sleep again. Waking is a process this time. She feels strangely rested, but the feeling of being watched stays with her the whole day. What didn’t scare her in the dream unsettles her now that her waking mind can begin to guess at what she has witnessed. The absence of the soul stone almost feels like the loss of a limb. She shouldn’t have thrown it, shouldn’t have tossed the shards away in guilt and fear - 

That evening, sleep eludes her. When she finally gives in and drags herself out of bed again, hours have slipped past her. Her mind is still too loud, too busy, too anxious to hope to fall asleep without some sort of lullabye again and so she does what she always does and makes for the liquor cabinet. Deep in the lower compartments, hidden behind her more expensive bottles, waits a neatly lines up row up cheap moonshine. It won’t make her go blind, but that is all it won’t do - probably melts her stomach lining off right as she’s drinking, in fact, but there’s always some losses.

At least it shuts up her brain.

By the time she collapses into bed, she has emptied a bottle or two. Hard to keep the count after a few glasses anyway, and ‘s long as she doesn’t get a craving at an inopportune moment, all’s well. Well. All’s as well as it can be, more like.

Another corridor, but this one - it isn’t so much familiar as it is some idea of familiarity: high, arching ceilings, white-washed walls scattered with artworks, floors of cool marble. Faint music wafts from somewhere unseen. The air is fresh and clear. Transparent veils glimmer up ahead, separating this part of whatever building this is from another. Light footfalls followed by silvery laughter make her wheel around, but she is alone.

When she finally can bring herself to walk forward, she half expects the floor to crumble beneath her boots. She is a single imperfection caught among this beauty, but the veils caress her when she pushes past them. The longer she walks, the more at ease she feels. If only she could stay long enough, maybe she would be made perfect too -

Klaxons blaring have her start from her sleep, heart hammering wildly. The strange serenity of the dream dissipates instantly as she jumps out of bed and sets to dressing hastily. Food and recaf are forgotten as she darts from her suite, into the stream of bodies hurrying to their duty stations, her bodyguards at her shoulders.

It is only a minor incursion. The daemons twist and scream as they die and something about it isn’t right. It is too easy, for once, her own forces throwing themselves against the foe in a near-frenzied fury that has even the daemonic quail and retreat. She has barely limped onto the bridge afterwards when a visibly relieved officer stops her: The navigator has found a clear path. If all goes as it should, they’ll arrive with a week or two to spare. Hours later, when the bodycount from the battles arrives, the sickbay is triumphant even in their report: a mere 3% loss of crew. Most of the patients are expected to make a full recovery. When she stops by the shooting range after her shift, she ends up beating her own personal best with an ease that - for the first time in months - makes something like pride glow inside her.

And then the whispers in her dreams start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little unrealistic? Well, yes. But this is 40k and ridiculous and over the top are the bare minimum, so.


	3. Day Three: Ritual / Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why worship when the price of your soul only keeps rising?

She has been raised to view religion as a distant affair. For the day-to-day, little emergency, one bothered a saint - a minor one, maybe, or one that one has some sort of connection to. (It wouldn’t have done to upset the more powerful ones with some sort of inconsequentiality, would it now.) It was only for the well and truly dire situations that one went to the Master of Humankind, or so the reasoning went.

Suffice it to say, most of the rituals she has read about strike her as a little hamfisted. Her crew is free to worship as they see fit, as they always have been - as long as it doesn’t impede the smooth functioning of the ship, she doesn’t care if they string up a slave to bleed or dance in circles. (And if they have not paid for that slave, her midshipmen and -women will soon come to collect anyway.) There are rules to adhere to, now as then, but she has always felt that faith is a personal thing. It wouldn’t do for a captain to insert herself.

Besides,  _ worship _ is so grand a word. Back in the day she had to be subtle about it - before her inner circle fell, there would have been far too many to strike her down for her heresy. Slowly nudging them in the right direction had been a welcome challenge - not that there hadn’t been help offered, but a good businesswoman doesn’t take deals that sound too good to be true if she values her soul, especially in this line of work. The challenge had been welcome. Troubles had cleared up - it was  _ amazing _ how quickly people died if one managed to get the right tools interested in doing the job - and she had found herself a little bored. What else to do but to ensure that things would keep running smoothly?

Let Morte have his paranoid scribblings. Let Innana be at the forefront of every charge. Let Takwin brew up whatever it is that he’ll unleash on the enemy as soon as nobody is looking. Let Rabalias hide himself away in his rooms and brood over the tomes she brings him. Out of all of them, it is only her navigator that might be able to see the bigger picture and that one is far too myopic to consider anything of the sort. Let them have their ceremonies and their prayers and their rituals: All that is beneath her.

These days, she probably could be as open about her loyalties as she wanted. Boarding parties screaming something about blood for the blood god are not particularly subtle, after all, and word tends to spread on that front. They took off into the Expanse after that - enough planets to resupply on, enough ports that don’t care where the money comes from as long as it keeps coming - and by now, she truly is her own lord and master. Who is to say no to anything she wants? Her crew? Those might have objected back in the day, but then a good crew always follows their captain.  


She could, but why would she? Carving runes into walls is so  _ crude _ . Not that there aren’t times when less than subtle is exactly what she needs, but a good captain always places the crew’s needs first. It wouldn’t do for half of them to mutate: She needs the workers more than she needs gibbering horrors slavering around in the corridors. Besides, it’s probably best not to encourage the more zealous sects aboard - her armsmen and -women have had to put down more than one upstart aiming for the captain’s throne already. Best to keep matters a little more… undivided. 

Besides, she’s always enjoyed a good haggling more than a sermon. Give any of the four deities a finger and they’ll try to the take the entire body half: Best not to give them the opportunity. If anything, she calls on them with specific enquiries - what would you want for  _ this? _ Could I interest you in  _ that _ instead? Here is why I really think you would be interested in  _ that _ instead. Khorne is the least likely to fall for it, closely followed by Grandfather Plague, but she has learned how to circumvent their recalcitrance in a pinch: It is a golden rule of business never to spell out exactly why your opponent might be getting the better deal, unless of course you want to make a point. (It is all a matter of spinning it right. It is always a matter of spinning it right.)

Then again, Khorne is pleased enough with the bloody swaths she cuts whenever the opportunity arises. (She always liked the sword better than the gun anyway.) Grandfather Plague seems amused by her tenacity and her stalwart refusal to bow. She is well aware that both their favours can turn sour any given moment, but for the time being she is careful to toss them enough bones to keep them satisfied. Tzeentch and Slaneesh might just appreciate the game she is playing for its own sake - they’re fickle enough to start with. Let them be: She can be stubborn enough to brush past it.

And so she doesn’t pray, doesn’t even swear by them. Doesn’t wear their symbols, doesn’t sacrifice anything that hasn’t been agreed on in exchange for a very specific gift. (Her one concession so far is to replace all aquilas with the eightfold star.) She doesn’t call on them unless she wants something. She is well aware that she is putting her all too human mind against four unknowable ones, but as long as she can redirect them to go after one another, she will stay afloat.

She has always been one for a good discussion, after all.


	4. Day Four: Lord-Swap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I struggle with fluff, can you tell? Anywhomst: This is a What If I had fun with regardless. After all, what is the single most most addictive thing you can offer to someone who lives in fear? Exactly: comfort.

There is no fear anymore, no uncertainty. There is even a certain pleasure in being dead - it is hard to kill those with no beating heart. As long as she lives, so does her house. If she cannot die, neither can her dynasty. It makes so much sense she is surprised she didn’t see it before. These days, the only thing she is is content. At first her smiles unsettled the crew, but by now they are smiling too.

She didn’t know how afraid she was until she wasn’t anymore, it seems. The rot and the disease turned her stomach at first: She had been at the mercy of Grandfather Nurgle before and the memories -  _ the memories - _

Even now, the thoughts make her double over and whimper faintly, clutching at her head as if she still could feel pain. Even the eternal happiness of the Lord of Pestilence pales for a moment as she remembers the weakness that plagued her, the confused fear that eventually dulled into helpless acceptance. But she is happy now. There is no need to think. There is no need to feel anything but content. Her master has given so freely, even to someone as undeserving as her. Grandfather Plague has welcomed her where nobody else would, flaws and fears and imperfections and all - and all she had to do was give up her fear.

It strikes her as a negligible thing to give away now. Who needs fear when they have love? Who needs doubts when they have acceptance? Who needs anything but this warmth of Grandfather Plague’s embrace? She didn’t see it as the gift it was back when it was first offered to her, but such is the mercy of the Plague Lord: He offered it again and again and again until she saw it for what it was. 

There would never have been a place for her in the False Imperium. People like her - broken, blemished, imperfect people - have always been shunned. For all its proclaimed love of humanity, the False Imperium worships perfection. She should have seen it all along: An empire that falls on its knees before the inhuman perfection of the adeptus astartes is no empire that spares a glance for the fate of the ordinary citizen. There is no love, no acceptance, no forgiveness to be found in its embrace. There never has been: That is its greatest lie and with it, its greatest sin.

The truth set her free when she was ready to see it. These days, she is blessed to be allowed to spread it. Like any responsible captain, she first gave it to her crew - and they were so happy for it, too. Those that resisted were simply rounded up and asked again after a few weeks. All it ever takes is just a gentle reminder of just how fragile their bodies are and most of them take to the opportunity to never feel hunger or thirst again with gusto. She would shake her head at their shortsightedness, were she not entirely aware that she dragged her feet too.

It is strangely freeing, casting off the mantle of the disobedient child. Who would have thought that all one ever had to do to be happy was to obey? If only her parents were still here, they would be proud to see her like this. She finally has found her place. No more worrying about right or wrong: All she has to do these days is to be happy. And she can be generous on top of it! No more vying for status, no more struggling for the peak: She has had quite enough of that when she was still alive, thank you very much. 

These days she can spread her goodwill as freely as she wants.


	5. Day Five: Lesser Seen Aspects of Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tzeentch has always struck me as someone who'd enjoy the more convoluted philosophy titles out there. So does our rogue trader.

It has been too long since she could hide herself away in a library. The owners would probably frown on it - this  _ is _ a private collection, after all - but the owners are no longer around to stop her. Given that her army is looting their palace as they speak, she is mostly certain that even if they were, they would have bigger problems to worry about.

There is something delightfully byzantine about the average philosophy tome. Arguments wind around each other, forming a nigh impenetrable maze - at least to the untrained mind. To the trained mind, untangling the strands becomes a challenge of sorts:  _ Can I outthink the thinker? _ She doesn’t often have the time for past-times like these - most of the books she reads these days attempt to actively twist one’s soul if one isn’t fast enough - and that makes the occasion a rare delight.

_ It follows therefore that in order to be human, one must possess a soul… _

No wonder this is a private collection. Ruminations on the matter of soul versus sparks of life as visible in the Warp sound faintly heretical to her admittedly untrained ear, if an interesting read. (Though it is, alas, as semi-unimportant as all philosophy. As long as she keeps a close grip on the ownership of her own soul, what is it to her who has and who hasn’t one?) The book goes on the pile to be incorporated in her own collection.

Back in the day, Morte played the head-librarian for her. He changed the sorting once or twice, hunted down copies of works she was interested in - that sort of thing. These days, she does that herself. Not that she has the time to suss out the perfect filing system, but it’s an ongoing project. As of yet, her collection isn’t so big that it’ll take months to update it according to whatever she settles on. She still has a few years to come up with something that suits her well.

It has to be byzantine, of course. Yes, yes, byzantine is a word that describes the Imperium exceedingly well and there are a great many things to be said about efficiency, but she enjoys a good challenge. Riddles are  _ fun _ \- and so is the challenge of building something that will continue to challenge her. She isn’t aiming for the bogged-down sort of incompetence that makes matters in the Imperium byzantine, thank you very much: She is aiming for the byzantine by design. 

(Besides, she figures that having to out-race her own creation is as good practice for surving the scrutiny of all four aspects of Chaos as any. If she cannot out-think herself, she stands little chance of staying ahead in that particular race and she has no delusions about what will happen if she falls behind. No, if she is to use the raw power of the Warp and not be used by it more than she has to, philosophy will do her good. The more she learns to read between the lines and find every hidden meaning within and without them, the longer she will live.)

_ The pursuit of happiness and satisfaction is one of the basest drives there is in life. Every living behind exhibits it to some degree or other… _

Definitely at least semi-heretical, this collection. The thought makes her pause and vox whichever lieutenant is charge of the sacking - are the owners of this charming place still alive? Yes? In possession of all their skin and extremities too? No? Alas. No, that will be all. No one to discuss the works then. A shame.

This book also goes on the  _ to be kept _ pile. Maybe she can prod Rabalias into reading the new acquisitions with her - or Morte. It even might do Inanna good; that one has gotten a little bloodthirsty as of late. Takwin will probably be a lost cause anyway. And if nobody presents themself, well, so be it. If she stays ahead of the race all by herself… there are worse things in life.


End file.
